Caledfwlch
by mrcmc888
Summary: Far before the twins, one a child of the darkness and one of the light, were born, a boy fell into the world of monsters, demons, and those who fight them. Some say he was the King of the Britons come again. Others say he was just someone who was motivated by vengeance. Who knows? The life of the boy who grew to be the greatest exorcist isn't a simple one.
1. Chapter 1

The boy sat in the chair, his head hung down, as the adults in the next room talked about things he didn't understand. The uncomfortable weight of caked mud was on his face, and grass stains discolored his uniform's yellow sweater; the shirt underneath it, once pristine white, was now several different shades of brownish-green, and a bruise was beginning to throb beneath his right eye. His hair, normally flax-blond, was just as discolored and disheveled as the rest of him. As he sat, he sniffled a bit, his silvery-blue eyes never looked up, but just remained at the floor. He was a very handsome child even in his current state.

The droning voice of the middle-aged, heavy-jowled headmaster floated into the waiting room where the boy sat. Even from just listening to him, it was easy to tell he was plump enough to sweat after walking only a few meters, and rolled back and forth like a penguin while doing so.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Angel. I know all you've done for us in the past, and I understand your financial situation. But the truth of the matter is-" (he stopped to wipe the sweat from his flabby brow) "-we simply cannot carry on in this manner. This is the third of these incidents that's happened between your son and other students here. As you know…" The boy knew exactly what was coming; the headmaster had a fondness for repeating this particular spiel whenever any sort of situation would arise. "…Saint Eustace is a renowned institute of learning, and we simply don't have any place for students like Arthur if he continues to make trouble. There are many families who would love to have gotten a place for their children at this academy; I know you are a faithful member of the congregation and Arthur is a very bright lad, but he just doesn't get along with others. Even if he's only eleven, I don't know of any way this can be stopped." The headmaster paused. "We, all his teachers…are at wit's end. I'm not sure how many more chances we can give him before he runs out."

Following, the boy heard the deeper tone of his father, his native French accent just barely noticeable, respond. "I understand, Father Gough. I will be sure to make sure that he knows this kind of behavior isn't acceptable."

"Please do so," the headmaster puffed. "As for today, he can go home early. Some of the other boys in Father Adderly's class are not too pleased with him, and I'm afraid more trouble will occur. Thank you for your time, Mr. Angel. Do you need the parish to send you any more food? Helen Rogers next door to you was worried about your family; I know it's hard being a single parent and all, and especially so with the economy being such as it is…I hate that you have to be bothered with this as well. Good day; we all hope you find new employment soon."

The headmaster's condolescences were as false as the man himself. Father Gough, just like everyone in the school, could care less about Arthur and every single thing about him. They all hated him, the other boys who would gather in their circle cliques and cast glances and snickers at him, the teachers who would single him out, judge him when he gave the wrong answer to a question they asked; when the others would just make fun of him off to themselves it was fine, but then they started to harass him, shove him around when no teachers were looking, then start to hit him and mock him. The more they could get away with it, the more they did. And then he fought back, and he was the one to be blamed. The headmaster just assumed because all five of the boys who ganged up on him were saying he hit them first, Arthur was the one who was lying. Because they were the high-class, upstanding choirboys. They were paragons of virtue, weren't they? All the kids with the double barreled names and who carried themselves with an air of superiority, they couldn't possibly bully some kid, could they? No, it was just Arthur Angel the problem child, the loner, being trouble once again.

Arthur hated everyone in that goddamn school. He would never say that word out loud or his father would punish him, but he hated them.

He lifted his head from where he was sitting, to see his father above him. Gustave Angel was a slight man of about five feet and a half, with his dark hair, now thinning, coiffed above his long forehead, and a bit of wispy facial hair, which was as much as he could grow, always present. He didn't look much like his son at first glance, but a stranger could see the resemblance after a few minutes of observation.

He looked at his son. Arthur knew the look well. It was all disappointment. Silently, he got up and followed him, still downcast.

It wasn't until they had gotten into their Ford and were backing out of the parking lot when his father spoke for the first time. "So, you got into another fight?"

"Thomas called me a stupid frog eater, and when I tried to go away he grabbed me and I punched him," the boy replied, softly. "They didn't believe me. They believed him."

"So was he telling them the truth?"

"Papa, do you believe me?"

"Arthur," his father huffed, "I'm not stupid. I've known for ages that Father Gough would like nothing more than to expel you for good so that he can have the perfect parish school of noble boys he's always wanted, and not have some half-French poor kid in there. He's disliked me for a long time too. If I had never married the old priest's daughter, he never would have let you into St. Eustace in the first place."

"So you believe me?"

"Yes, but I'm still disappointed in you. You're better than that."

"What do you want me to do," Arthur replied solemnly, "just sit there while they pick on me?"

"I know this is going to sound harsh," his father sighed, "but you've got to endure it. I know it's hard. But if you fight back, it's just going to get you in worse trouble. The administration is never going to believe you if you say it was self-defense. So, make it where they have no choice but to believe you. Don't stoop to those other kids' level. It will come back to them in time."

Arthur said nothing, but just looked down at the floorboard of the car, which was now merrily speeding along the A-road to Bath at forty miles per hour. He hated when his dad lectured him.

"I'm sorry I did that, Papa."

"It's okay." Gustave sighed, cutting off for a second. "I wish your mom was still here. She'd do a much better job of explaining this than I would, wouldn't she? You just have to be strong. I know you can be."

"I will be, Papa."

"Still, you got in trouble at school, so no Nintendo for you tonight."

"Aw, Papa…"

"You have better things to do than play those games anyways."

Arthur sighed and put his hand on his chin.

The caravan car pulled into the driveway. The suburban house that Arthur's family lived in was tall, blocky, and dull just like every other one on the street, built for the conformity of the fifties but, that period now long since past, was only a place where lived day laborers, young part-time students, and one or two Pakistani immigrants. It was simply average, like every other place in Glastonbury. The pipes whined and the house creaked and the ceiling in the spare bedroom leaked during storms and some of the drywall in the living room had been missing for years and the gutters always got stopped up, but they could have lived in a far worse place.

The boy in the uniform entered the door of his home, his backpack still on, and sighed heavily. Locking himself in his room would do him some good to forget the previous day.

That was, until he entered the guest room and saw a girl of about nine, with the same wheatish hair and blue eyes as him, tapping away at the controller of an NES and muttering something about dying again to the same turtle.

Immediately, he ran up to her and snatched the controller out of her hands. "Hey, I was playing that!" she yelped.

"Sophie! It's not yours!" Concentrating on the television for a second, he scanned out the layout of the level. She was only on the first world. _Are you kidding me? A monkey could beat that and you can't…_

With the controller in the hands of someone who had beaten Super Mario already, the level was vanquished in short time. Still, Arthur was not pleased. "I swear if she overwrote my save game…" he muttered.

"Give it back!" Sophie pleaded, trying to reach and grab the controller out of her brother's hand, but he held it out of her reach.

Arthur angrily strode over to the console and unplugged the game cartridge. "You can play whatever else you want, but DON'T! TOUCH! MARIO! GOT IT?!"

His little sister made a dive for the cartridge but he whipped it up and she fell to the floor.

"Daddy!" she yelled. "Arthur's being mean!"

"What? I am not!"

"Arthur, I thought I told you no Nintendo," his father grumbled, entering the room. Sophie, still on the floor, gave a smug little giggle. _Shut up…_

"And you, Sophie, have you finished all your homework?"

Startled, she gave the least convincing poker face ever. "Yes…"

"Go do your homework."

"Yes, Daddy," she said, downcast. Arthur returned her smug glance.

"I hate you, Big Bro," she muttered before leaving. He stuck his tongue out at her as she went.

Then, leaving as well, he went upstairs. He couldn't play video games, so pretty much all there was to do was sleep. Nothing ever happened here anyways. He wouldn't be missing much. And besides, all the trouble today had tired him out.

He thought he would have to lay in bed a long time, but Arthur was fast asleep within a few minutes.

* * *

Atop the building, the highest in the small town, the senior exorcist peered through his binoculars at the landscape below. The town, like all other small villages in England on a weeknight, was completely shuttered; it was a late enough hour that even the pub had gone dark.

Four stories wasn't very tall for a building, but the bank was the perfect spot from which to watch Glastonbury. The exorcist peered through his binoculars, searching all over the horizon. In his pocket, a seal on which had been printed an esoteric symbol pulsed with a gentle red light. There were no demons in the area that it had detected. Still, he was on guard, because that was his assignment. All he knew was that there was something in the bank below that needed protection that night, and it was important enough to send a crack squad of the Dublin branch's best Dragoons to guard it.

Under his midnight-blue robe, on which was pinned the green and gold Celtic cross of the Irish Knights, he could feel the slight brush of a small plastic block, a dead man's switch. If the worst happened, it would call in the local police, and put the entire region on high alert. Still, it was the last resort. This was his last year before he retired; he hoped it wouldn't come to that. He wanted to spend more time with his family, and his rank meant he would have enough money to be set the rest of his life. Not every exorcist was strong enough, or lived long enough to obtain Upper Second Class.

He thought of his youngest son, who had always been sickly, and the extra time he would need to spend caring for him, since his wife barely had enough time for the two older children as it was. Maybe they would move to some place in England like here. It was clean and fresh and peaceful.

In the five minutes or so he had been watching, nothing else had appeared. He shifted the assault rifle on his back and put down the binoculars.

Behind him, the younger members of the squad, four in total, were barely paying attention to the surroundings, instead laying back, polishing their guns, checking their radios, or something else.

An Exorcist Second Class with a mop of shaggy silver hair covering his face, yawned. "Um, Commander Silverstein, you got anything?"

"Nothing," the senior exorcist replied.

"Are you sure there's even gonna be anything here? I'm freezing my arse off waiting…can't we go inside?"

The other three offered murmurs of assent.

"There's worse things than cold," Silverstein harrumphed. "Deal with it. This is a non-signatory country, remember?"

"Ahh, who cares," the young exorcist moaned, shoving his hands in his pockets. "We've been up here for five hours. I want to go home already."

"Soderstrom, this is important."

"What's in there that's so important to whoever wants to steal it? Are the Illuminati back from the dead or something?"

"I need a drink…" another of the exorcists commented.

"It's important enough that the best were assigned to protect it," the commander stated.

"Best, my arse," Soderstrom grumbled. "If the Order really cared they'd send the Special Ops team from the Vatican. This is a quick way to suicide."

"Second Class Soderstrom, enough!" snapped the second-in-command, a high-cheekboned, high-strung Dubliner named Strahan.

"Strahan, stand down," Silverstein said, motioning downwards with is hand. "You have something to do now. Check in with HQ."

"Yessir," Soderstrom mumbled dejectedly as he took out the walkie-talkie in his coat. "Blackbird 3 calling Patrick. Blackbird 3 calling Patrick. What's your read?"

A voice crackled from the radio. "Patrick calling Blackbird Squadron. All clear, over. No detection. Stay alert for further instructions." It went silent after that.

The commander stood near the edge of the roof, letting the wind ripple his graying dark hair and beard. The sky was dark and speckled with the clouds of a November evening, rolling by. It sure was beautiful in this little town. It even seemed like time had stopped and it would just be peaceful and idyllic forever where he was.

There was a large cloud in the east, which flashed with light. Was a storm coming? He listened intently, but there was no thunder. That was strange. It almost seemed like it was darker than the night sky itself, and moving faster than the others as well. It was now still closer, pulsing with an eerie blue light. As he watched, something became clear from his years of experience.

That was no cloud.

In one fluid motion, he pulled the M16A2 rifle, loaded with enchanted ammunition, from over his shoulder and cocked it.

"TAKE COVER!" he yelled. "DEFENSE FORMATION, NOW!"

The looks on the faces of the squad members had changed from boredom to sheer terror as they scrambled to find whatever cover they could on the rooftop.

The cloud was now directly overhead, glowing with a light that was not of this world. It was no longer a formless mass but now resembled a being with its wings spread wide and two eyes burning with an unnatural glow.

The radio that Soderstrom had dropped was crackling away with frightened noise. "Blackbird Squadron, retreat immediately! Level 10 threat detected in the immediate area! Possible Prince of Hell! Retreat and call for backup! Do you copy, Blackbird Squadron?"

 _A Prince of Hell? There's no way that could be right!_

A tremendous, earsplitting whine emanated all around the exorcists, and the commander fell to the ground in pain. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. When he tentatively rose to his feet, the cloud was gone, but Soderstrom was standing in the center of the rooftop, looking up at the sky. The commander raised his rifle and hesitantly advanced forward.

"Avi Silverstein, what did the gladiators say to the Emperor?" Something sounded off about the young exorcist's voice.

"What do you mean?" the commander replied, shakiness still present in his tone.

"Morituri te salutant, wasn't it?"

"Morituri…te…salutant?"

As Soderstrom turned around, his commander saw that, horrifyingly, his eyes were as black as the sky.

"A fitting end for one such as you."

Silverstein didn't notice the Sig P226 being drawn, or the report of the bullet, until it was too late. The impact crushed into his abdomen, sending him tumbling off the ledge into the street below.

Before he hit the ground, the last thing that went through his mind was the face of his son.

* * *

The police cruisers, their lights blazing, had surrounded the bank within a quarter hour. Captain Michael Barry stood, watching the front doors, as the SWAT van pulled up to the curb, releasing ten armed officers. He snapped a salute as their commander made his way over to where he was standing. The commander returned the salute, then began to speak.

"Captain Barry, what's the intel?"

"There's been an explosion in the bank; multiple hostiles expected. You're going to have to deal with it as terrorism."

The SWAT commander sighed and took off his helmet to rub his forehead. "Have we gotten the lethal force authorization?"

"Yeah, Portishead's given the free fire. We're going to send your team in first, followed by the uniforms."

"What could a bomber want out here?" the SWAT officer asked, confused.

"Lord only knows…" Barry replied.

Beside them, an officer called out on a megaphone, "This is the Avon and Somerset Police Department! We have you surrounded! You have one minute to surrender or we will enter!"

"Formations!" the SWAT leader called. The 10 heavily-armed troopers took up positions outside the bank's front door, and the uniformed constables creeped closer to the door. Barry stood behind his car with his pistol drawn, watching closely.

A few seconds passed, and then Barry raised his hand and the SWAT troopers kicked down the door. They spread into the lobby, the other officers following. In total, including the captain there were almost 35 police officers in the bank. Even with that many, Barry still had his doubts they could handle a heavily-armed bunch of terrorists.

The lobby was eerily dark and quiet. There was no movement or even any sign of damage to the bank. What could the people who broke into it possibly want? As far as he knew, there were no valuables of any sort that would necessitate an explosion. Hell, if someone wanted to rob the bank they might as well just walk in in the middle of the day and just take whatever they wanted. Why would they go to all this trouble?

The SWAT troopers, lighting up the marble floor and painted walls with their flashlights, crept over the tellers' desks and surrounded the vault door. One of them touched it, and it creaked open slowly. Looking at Barry, they swung the heavy door open and entered the vault when he gave the command.

It was undisturbed. Not a single deposit box had even been opened. As they stood around in confusion, one of the troopers bent down and pointed to the floor. "Sir, look at this…"

Barry cautiously made his way over to the floor, which had been torn away. Beneath it, something gold glimmered. He held his flashlight to it and gasped.

It was a reliquary, decorated with gold and silver and precious stones, with lapis lazuli inlays and figures of a man with a crown etched into it. Uncial writing ringed the top of it, which was shaped a little like a church. The design was absolutely ancient. It had to be from Anglo-Saxon times at the latest. Where did it even come from? There were the ruins of an old cathedral in town, but all the art had long since been moved or lost. With shaking hands, he hesitantly picked the top off the reliquary. Inside, there was nothing except some dust.

He held the artifact, puzzled. It was worth a fortune if it was authentic, and it had been dug up, but whoever had done it had left it in its hidden vault. There had to be something inside that was far more valuable; it was the only explanation. But what was it?

All of a sudden, the door to the vault slammed shut, and everything went dark. There were confused murmurs and the sounds of guns being drawn from all around. Then, the fluorescent lights above flickered on.

A man with silver-blonde hair, wearing a dark blue double-breasted coat, was standing at the vault door, holding out a pistol.

"Hands in the air!" Barry screamed. "Drop the weapon, now!"

Three dozen police officers had their weapons pointed at the man. He only just smirked.

"Looking for this?" he asked, pulling out a golden vial from inside his coat. The captain's eyes widened. So that was what was inside the box…

He held his hand up, and immediately every single officer in the room loosed their weapons. The sound was absolutely deafening, and dust was kicked up everywhere. There would be a hefty repair fee, but it would definitely be worth it. This treasure was worth a massive amount of money.

The bullets were flying, but they weren't hitting the man. He stood, looking slightly amused, as an orb of blue light flashed around him every time a slug came close, vaporizing the bullet into thin air.

As the gunshots trailed off, the man was still standing in front of the door, smirking. Not even a single bit of damage had been done.

As he stood looking at the strange man, his mouth agape, Barry remembered something. That uniform, that one with the dark color and the badges that almost looked military…that was a member of the Order of the True Cross. He'd seen them on TV, collecting alms for the poor and doing other charitable work. _But they don't operate in the UK, right?_ he thought, sweating. _Why is one here and why the hell can he do that? Is he…even human?_

It seemed impossible. He didn't want to admit it to his wife, but he loved to read conspiracy books, and many of them went on tangents about how the Order was just a front for some strange, Illuminati-like secret society that let the Vatican get into governments' back pockets, but it was so obviously false that it was funny. Yet here he was, seemingly with proof.

A blue light began to glow at the man's feet. In shock, the police captain realized the man was being engulfed by a crystal-blue flame. It blew his hair back, revealing hideously pointed ears, and his face began to stretch and his eyes took on a black glow.

"Fine," the man said, in a voice that seemed almost demonic. "I'll do what you ask." He dropped the pistol off to his side. "Man, you make the guys up on the roof seem skilled…don't worry though." His smirk grew large and evil, as with terror the police captain saw that he was producing a long, thin sabre, burning with the same flame that he was coated in, directly from his body. "It'll be over quickly."

* * *

It was cold. Why was it so cold? Did the heater in the house suddenly break or something? It wouldn't be the first time. Arthur squirmed and reached down to pull the comforter up, but he only felt his fleece pajama pants. _Crap, I kicked the covers off…_ He didn't want to get up, especially if there was still a lot of time before school started.

He reached out to his side, but instead of a soft blanket, his hand hit freezing stone.

Arthur jolted up, his cornflower eyes wide open. He was seated on a floor of ancient stone, the ruins of carved pillars all around. In front of him, a stone table had been broken in two by some rain or wind long ago. There had probably once been a ceiling above him, but now only the stars shone through, so many that even the dusky bands of the galaxy could be seen. It was incredibly cold, and Arthur, noticing it, wrapped his hands around his body and started to shiver. He knew this place. It was the remains of the old Abbey east of town; his primary school had gone on field trips there. _What am I even doing here?_

There were footsteps on the stone, echoing throughout the chamber. Arthur tensed up. He could just feel that something bad was coming, and he tried to scramble for protection, but there was no cover to be found.

As he sat there terrified, a shadow crossed in front of the old, ruined altar, and the shape of a man, wearing a midnight-blue coat and high black boots, emerged into the moonlight. His hair was an almost translucent shade of silver, and his eyes were purple. As he moved forward, it became clear that he was dragging another person by the hand. It took him a second to make out who it was, but as she turned her face to him, he recognized immediately.

It was his sister.

As she stared at him, he could see nothing but fear in her eyes.

The man stared coldly down at Arthur, and it was like the temperature dropped twenty more degrees. "So, you're finally up?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed, but his terror still far outweighed his fear, and all he could squeak out was, "Who…are…you?"

The man grinned. "Who am I, kid? Oh, that's a good one. Ever heard of the Seducer of Men before? The accursed Swayer of Hearts? Haven't, I see? Then I suppose some introductions are in order. Of course, I don't really care who you are. But it would be best for you to know the name Belphegor."

Arthur hissed out of his teeth. "Let…Sophie…go…"

A giggle came from the mouth of the young man who had called himself Belphegor. "Oh, you two are related? I see the resemblance now! I thought I had just grabbed a couple of random kids, but two hostages are always better than one!"

"I don't know what you want, but just let her go!"

"What I want?" The man was on top of him so quickly that it almost seemed like he had teleported. "What I want is something you probably won't understand, no matter how brave you act, kid."

"Big Bro, don't worry about me…" Sophie barely squeaked out, still in Belphegor's grasp. "Just run…"

"Ah, shut up," Belphegor hissed. "You act like you're gonna die or something. If this works, then I let you go. It's that simple." He tossed Sophie down roughly in front of her brother; she lay weakly on Arthur's lap, breathing in heavily. "By the way, don't even think about trying to run. You won't get past the barrier I put up. Actually, maybe I shouldn't have told you that. It would have been funny seeing you two trying to hit the barrier and scream for help…"

He walked back to the center of the room. "Honestly, how stupid of the Order. They've been around for hundreds of years and they hid one of their most powerful relics in a country they can't even legally go into. Oh well, at least I can focus on the final part of the Ring with not a lot of trouble."

Suddenly, he drove his fist into the floor. Bits of rocks and dust flew everywhere, and Arthur coughed from it going into his lungs. When it cleared, the man was holding a curved sword in his hands. It looked to be a seax, as old as the Anglo-Saxon times, but there was still a bit of dignity in it, even though its hilt was crudely made and its sheen was dull and covered with dust. Belphegor looked down at it, grinning.

"So this is it, isn't it…the Savior of Britain's weapon itself…what the Lady of the Lake made, what repulsed the Saxons at Mount Badon, what even in his dying breath slew Mordred…and now, it is mine." He held up a golden vial, glinting in the moonlight. "Only the blood of a rightful king of the Britons can awaken it, but as this is that very relic of Edward the Confessor, preserved for millennia, I would say I have that, wouldn't I?" He lifted the lid off the top. "It's time for you to return." His grin was as wide as his face. "Excalibur."

He turned the vial over, then grinned and dashed it against the ground, immediately reached out with his hands, and Sophie was suddenly engulfed in a brilliant blue flame.

She was on his lap burning and gasping for breath, trying to cry out, and yet the flames weren't touching Arthur. But what he was seeing hurt far more than any fire ever could.

A dark red orb, flowing like liquid, raised above the convulsing body of his little sister.

Belphegor began to laugh wildly. "The Order honestly thought that cute little trick would work? Putting a fake relic in the bank vault when what will actually wake Excalibur is right in front of me? Did you really believe I needed any sort of hostage when no human can harm me? It might have worked well on the Illuminati, sure. But you can't trick someone whose very name is Deceit."

His sister had grown silent, and her body was beginning to turn to ash.

"Y-You said you'd let us go…" Arthur stammered out, shaking half from fear and the other from anger.

"Aww, did I? Is there anything forcing me to keep a promise here? Anything? I guess not! Well, too bad!" Belphegor sneered. "Kid, you learned something today. Wanna know what it is? Never trust a demon."

The sanguine globe, hovering over Belphegor's head, began to elongate and whirl around the sword. An extremely bright light began to emanate from it, so powerful Arthur had to shield his eyes. When he opened them again, the form of the ancient Saxon broadsword was gone. Instead, a wide, powerful cutting blade with an offset tip was in the demon's hand, with a golden cross glowing on the two-toned burnished metal.

"It was fun playing with you, but I've grown bored. Since you were so fun, though, I'll make it painless," the demon snarked.

"You're a…a…piece of shit," Arthur replied. It felt good to say it to someone who had killed his sister in front of him. Even if, you know, he was going to die too.

"Why, thank you," Belphegor grinned, and swung the sword downwards. Arthur closed his eyes.

There was a flash of light, then…nothing. Was he dead?

When he opened his eyes, he saw Belphegor's face twisted in rage as he attempted to force the sword downwards, but nothing was happening.

He pressed and pressed, but the sword stayed quivering inches above the boy's face.

Then, the sound of footsteps echoed throughout the chamber.

The moonlight lit the frame of Gustave Angel, his attire disheveled but his countenance steely-focused.

"P-Papa?" Arthur breathed, as he noticed the glinting blade he held in his right hand.

"Huh?" Belphegor sneered. "Is that all the Knights have? The famous Right Hand of the Chevaliers de Guyenne, Monsieur Angel, is it? You seem a little…out of practice."

His father shifted his foot backwards, taking a defensive stance. "For years I neglected my duty. I see what that has brought me. I will do that no longer." He drew his sword in front of him, the moonlight reflecting molten silver off the cutting edge. "This is my sword. With it I shall purify you, creature of Hell."

The demon threw the sword he was carrying to the ground. "Ha! I don't even need this useless piece of crap to beat you." His body became engulfed in those horrible blue flames, and several pieces of long, jagged, burning blue crystal materialized in front of him. He grabbed one and, in a flash, rushed toward Arthur's father, laughing wildly. "Let's see what you've got, Chevalier!" Gustave blocked, but the force of Belphegor's repeated blows were taking a strain on him, as he dug his footing in on the ancient stone floor. Suddenly, he flicked his eyes toward Arthur and caught them, then slowly moved them over to the right.

It took Arthur a second, but then he saw his father was staring straight at Excalibur. Before he could even say, "Grab the sword and run!" he had already taken off, sprinting as fast as he could to pick it up.

Belphegor's head snapped around as he saw what was going on. "Oh no you don't, you little brat!" he hissed, moving toward Excalibur, but Gustave was faster, stopping the demon's advance with his sword.

"I've had enough of you!" the demon screamed as the weapon of fire in his hand split into a whip of nine parts, which he flicked over and over the body of the Frenchman. Gustave still held firm, but there was a grimace of pain on his face, and his clothing was beginning to be torn and burnt. Arthur stood next to the form of Excalibur, shining with light, his feet rooted on the ground. If he ran, his father would die…he was sure of it…but he couldn't do anything either…

"ARTHUR!" his father yelled, snapping him out of his trance. "I'LL BE FINE! GRAB IT AND RUN!"

As he turned to yell at his son, the demon ran him through with the blazing shard, and Gustave Angel's eyes glazed as he slumped to the ground.

Without any hesitation, the boy placed his hand on the hilt of the sword. Brilliant white light began to stream throughout the chamber as his cry of anguish for the only family he knew filled the surroundings.

The fire was twisting Belphegor's shape into something inhuman. He advanced slowly, sword of flame in his hand. "Give…it…back…you…little…brat…"

Suddenly, the deep voice of an old man echoed in Arthur's head. _You are the one that has been chosen?_

With a shaky voice, the boy replied, "Help…me…"

 _As you wish, my master._

Light filled the boy's vision, and he could feel nothing anymore.

Arthur didn't know how long it had been, but when he came to, he was lying on his back in the middle of a forest, clutching the sword to his chest with both hands.

He blinked, and above him the figure of a man in a coat filled his vision. Behind him, several other figures in uniforms moved. It was another one of those people. The Order or something? Forget it, he didn't care.

The man was wearing wire-rimmed glasses on a strap and a grey balaclava, which he promptly pulled down. "Jesus Christ, that's- Are you okay?"

The only thing Arthur could respond with was a weak, "My father's in there…please, save him…"

The man in the jacket pulled down his glasses and ruffled a hand through his brown hair. Now that his face was revealed, Arthur realized he was an Asian man. He didn't even know that many of them at all.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. The man in there's been dead for hours, and the demon's escaped. That bastard killed five of our best, too…"

He looked down. "I guess that's what he was after, huh?"

Arthur shrank back as the man drew a hand toward him. He wanted to cry, to sob, to scream, but he couldn't even shed a single tear. It was like he never had any to begin with.

"Relax. I'm not gonna hurt you." He bent down to take a closer look at Excalibur. "It picked you? I guess I have to plan around that."

"Who-who are you?" Arthur managed to ask.

"Guess I should have said that sooner. Senior Exorcist Second Class Shiro Fujimoto, Appointed Supervisor for the Order of the True Cross in the United Kingdom. My headquarters are at Dublin like the rest of these guys."

"You're not-"

"Yeah, I used to be chief of the Japan branch, but the idiots in Rome didn't like what I was doing so they stuck me out here." He paused for a second. "You saw something you probably shouldn't have, didn't you?"

Arthur nodded slightly.

"I did too, a long time ago. I hate that it had to happen to you. Once you enter this world, you can't ever escape it. Especially since you have _that_. That demon is going to be back for you soon, and probably others too. The Vatican will want you under their protection as well. You got any other relatives?"

Arthur slowly nodded no.

He paused, then pulled a couple pieces of paper with writing on them out of his breast pocket, along with a small velvet pouch. "I tell you what. This will be our little secret. I'll be sending you to a friend of mine up in Scotland, on a farm in the country. You'll be homeschooled, so you'll have no reason to leave the property. Give this salt to him. He'll sprinkle it around the property, and it won't allow any demons to cross. This seal is for hiding your weapon. Keep it on you at all times. Don't ever unseal it. And this seal is for masking your powers. Keep it on as well. And most importantly, don't EVER leave the property. You got me?"

Arthur slowly nodded yes.

"It'll only be a few years, kid. Then, I'll come get you. Don't worry." Fujimoto patted him on the head. "I've already got my familiars to take your belongings up to your new home. They work wonders."

Arthur looked back up with him, his blue eyes dull and beginning to tear up.

"By the way, kiddo, I forgot to ask. What's your name?"

"I-I'm Arthur. Arthur Angel."

"That's pretty accurate," the exorcist laughed. "See ya in a few." He made a small salute with his first two fingers, then flicked them off his forehead quickly before pulling out another piece of paper with a seal drawn on it and ripping it in two. The world began to spin, and then it stopped.

Arthur was in a room that looked exactly like his one at home. Everything from the color to the items on the bedside table was just like he had left it. To the right, his window blinds were drawn, and he peeked out of them. Instead of the familiar Glastonbury street, he saw instead a desolate Highland plain, mountains in the distance.

No matter how much it seemed like it, it wasn't home. He could never go home again.

The boy threw himself into his pillow, which did nothing to mask his sobs.

 _Four years later_

Maybe that guy would never come back, Arthur thought as he sat outside the large manor house, looking over the landscape with no one in site, just as usual. It was pretty nice to look at outside. That was pretty much the only thing he liked about here.

What he didn't like was that he couldn't go outside at all. And if he didn't go outside, he couldn't find that…that thing called Belphegor.

Years hadn't dulled his strong feelings. In contrast, they had almost festered instead. They had grown, all the pain, all the hatred, and multiplied.

The only problem was that he didn't know how you could kill a demon.

So often, he would have nightmares, waking up in a sweat from seeing Sophie's little face twisted in agony as the monster burned her alive.

Someday, he would make Belphegor regret what he had done.

But that someday wouldn't be anytime soon.

That was, until he saw the black SUV, its windows tinted out, rolling slowly up the dirt road, and a man with short hair, now speckled with a little bit of gray, and a scruffy beard stepped out, wearing a uniform Arthur knew all too well.

"Yo," Shiro Fujimoto said, raising his hand. "Been a while."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Hi everyone! I've been quite busy lately with school and work and lots of other things, but I figured I should get out another idea I've been working on. I originally wrote this a long time ago, but I got it taken down because it was OCs…so I rewrote it to be the backstory of a character who's actually from the series.

I'm not especially good with AUs, but I love to fill in the gaps in canon stories…I think it's really fun to explore more of what's not so relevant to the main story so as to build a world. I love world constructing and that's a huge part of my writing. It also comes from the fact that I get ideas so fast that I have to write them before I lose the idea for good. In fact, this story has been floating around my head for almost a year now, and with the AnE anime returning, I felt it was the best time to publish it!

Updates might be slow since I don't have this series mapped out yet, but I'll do my best, see you soon!


	2. Chapter 2

_Order of the True Cross Headquarters, beneath the Basilica of St. John Lateran, Rome_

Shiro Fujimoto stood on the elevated wooden podium, which faced the ornamented gallery, so tall the rotunda in which the building was constructed could not be made out at its greatest height. The platform stood almost a story in the air; beneath him milled white administrative uniforms and at the entrances stood members of the Paladin's Legion, Upper First Classes and the four Arch Knights in full ceremonial dress, swords drawn. This was procedure; Fujimoto wasn't worried or anything. He wasn't being tried. Yet.

Across from him, three figures in ornate, hooded robes, their faces covered, entered the gallery slowly and came to a halt facing him. The Grigori were the three overseers appointed by the Pope to judge the Order; after their official separation in 1946 they were the last vestiges of power the Catholic Church held over the Knights, and their faces were covered so they could judge and be judged impartially. However, despite being appointed by an institution that had no real power over the exorcists anymore, they outranked even the Paladin, the Order's leader.

Fujimoto swallowed. Several of the spotlights from the gallery window were trained on him. The hearing chamber was deliberately designed to be as uncomfortable as possible; considering it had also been the place where inquisitions were held and where crimes by members of the Order were still tried today, it was understandable. But Fujimoto was not convicted of any crime, so he would have rather held his hearing elsewhere.

One of the doors opened up, and with a poof of variously colored smoke a scruffy-looking man emerged. He was dressed in the same white uniform of a branch chief as many of the exorcists on the floor, but he wore an oversized hat on the top of his head, and his coat was decorated with baubles in every color of the rainbow. The Vatican was probably going to cite him for a uniform violation again, but Fujimoto's subordinate, the head of the Japan Branch, simply didn't care about that.

"Senior Second Class Shiro Fujimoto," one of the Grigori boomed in the deep voice of an older man. "As your probation period has expired, we are preparing to transfer you back to the Japan Branch; in addition, as you indicated you have multiple trainees under your guardianship and are unmarried, we will not transfer you on probation again. However, before we do so, we have received report of an incident that occurred while you had jurisdiction over the United Kingdom."

The second, a woman, began talking. "November 4, 1990. According to your command, a reconnaissance squad of five were sent out from Dublin into Glastonbury, Somerset, to protect a bank in which the sword Excalibur was supposedly housed. However, the object was not there, and according to reports, all five members were killed, correct?"

"Yes."

"Why did you send them to that location when you did not know for certain that it was there?"

"It was based on information I obtained from those in command above me."

The third, in a shaky voice, spoke. "And that next morning, we received an alarm that the resting place of Excalibur had been disturbed; did you gain even any information on who had done that?"

"It was Belphegor, Prince of Deception," Fujimoto replied. Anxious murmurs filled the chamber.

"Belphegor was exorcised by the Crusaders a thousand years ago," the woman said coldly. "How can you be so sure?"

"I heard it from someone who was there."

"Hearsay?"

"If you call hearing it from the bearer of Excalibur that, I guess so."

A hush immediately came over the chamber. After a few seconds, the first Grigori spoke. "A bearer of Excalibur? Why was the Vatican not immediately informed of this?"

"With all due respect, 11 is much too young for a member of the Order."

"And you are the same one who is training that twelve-year-old personally?"

"That is a necessity, not a luxury."

"Fujimoto!" the woman snapped. "Do you plan to defy us again? Your plotting is what made you exiled in the first place. First consorting with a demon, now hiding Excalibur…do you wish to be excommunicated? We have every reason to believe that you are concealing an insurrection."

"Calling me just a demon…how cruel," the scruffy man on the floor sighed.

"Quiet, Pheles!" the third Grigori roared.

"Now, Fujimoto," he continued, turning back to the interrogation. "What have you to say for yourself?"

This might be the difference between his retainment and expulsion, so Fujimoto took the time to think. He cleared his throat.

"I mean no slight against the Vatican by hiding this child, nor do I believe myself to be above all of you. Yet I worry for the boy. He is of a very fragile mental constitution. The day I met him, all of his family had been slain in front of his eyes. And I ask you: what good does putting an eleven-year-old in that state in exorcist training do us? What good is Excalibur if its bearer is too frightened to ever take it up? It was fortunate it fell into our hands, and I will keep it by any means necessary, even if it is defiance. Under the protection I provide, he will have years to straighten his mind, focus it, change it. And I predict he will fill it with vengeance for the demon who took his life away from him. This boy is a weapon, the first of many that will finally succeed in taking this Earth back from Satan once and for all."

"Bold words, Fujimoto. Solomon could not do it. The Crusaders could not do it. Joan of Arc, Napoleon, Haile Selassie…they could not do it. And you can?"

"I can. He will be entered into True Cross Academy in Tokyo when he is fifteen, and trained specially by me. And I will wager he, one day, will become Paladin, and the savior of the world. If not so, I am willing to accept my excommunication."

"We will permit that, Fujimoto. You are allowed to return to your post. But remember…you speak of blasphemy. If your words have lead us astray, then you are just as a King of Hell himself, and we will treat you as such. Dismissed."

* * *

 _Narita Airport, Tokyo_

The fifteen-year-old sat on the bench, his legs spread wide and slumped to the floor, and his head lolling on his chest. It had been a flight halfway across the world, and it was not exactly the way he had planned to spend a weekend. Sure, it got him closer to his goal, but sitting on a cramped plane for two-thirds of a day was exhausting, and he hadn't been able to sleep through any of it. That and the peanuts were stale and the drinks weren't even cold, and for some reason he didn't know, they were stuck back in coach class, and Fujimoto didn't even let Arthur have the window seat, so he was stuck next to a fat, middle-aged Japanese man who wasn't wearing any deodorant.

 _You would think a secret organization would have enough money to put me in first class,_ Arthur thought grumpily, turning the crumpled wad of a potato-chip bag over in his hands. He hadn't had any real food for at least a day, either, and the airport was too bright and busy for his liking. There were flashing colors everywhere, imploring tourists to come in and buy the latest gadget or souvenir with huge characters he couldn't read and horribly mangled English. Plus, there weren't even that many foreigners in this section of the airport, even with two flights from Heathrow arriving, so a lot of the Japanese walking to get to their gate down the central aisle had stopped to gawk at him and the other Westerners. At one point, a couple of little girls had tried to take a picture and he had snarled at them; they ran off crying and he caught an older lady shooting him a dirty look afterwards. He didn't care; he'd put up with enough. All Arthur wanted was a meal and a nap.

"Brought you something," Fujimoto stood above Arthur, holding out a yellow can with black Japanese writing. Arthur's eyes immediately narrowed. _Vending machine again? How cheap is this guy?_ Still, he took it anyways, popped the top on it, took a sip, and immediately gagged. It was black coffee, but lukewarm, and it tasted horrible. He forced it down, then took it over to the trash can and threw it in.

"You sure have grown an attitude since last time," Fujimoto hissed.

"It tasted like shit," Arthur replied.

"Yeah, and you got it for free. At least drink it out of gratitude," the exorcist grumbled. "God, this is why I hate teenagers. They're such a pain in the ass…"

He wanted to fire off a snappy remark about the reason being because he was stuck on a cramped airplane for sixteen hours and had been waiting on this bench two more without anything close to sleep or food, but Arthur held his tongue.

The intercom went off, and a female voice which sounded oddly sedated began to read off a list of flight numbers in Japanese. One of them was their flight.

"Luggage is ready," Fujimoto announced. "Come on, let's go." The two walked silently through the crowds of homogeneous people for what seemed like hours, until they reached the embarkation for a subway. They packed on; with the density of people it was almost impossible for the boy and the exorcist to see each other. Arthur held onto a strap at the top of the train, and the subway suddenly lurched into motion at a high speed. After a ride of only a few minutes, the train stopped again and the people began to pour out. Fujimoto's graying head was hard to spot amidst the crowd, but Arthur was able to pick him out because of his glasses and overcoat, and he was sure the Japanese man was looking for the only blonde in the entirety of the crowd, so he would be fine. Wordlessly, he followed his senior to the baggage claim, where luggage from their flight was dropping. After a few seconds, he noticed a brown bag rounding the conveyor belt, which he picked off. Looking to his left, he noticed Fujimoto already had the handles of two huge suitcases in both of his hands.

"Where's the rest of my luggage?" Arthur hesitantly asked.

"Should be already there," Fujimoto replied.

"All that distance?"

"We have ways," Fujimoto said, scratching the back of his head. "This school is pretty accommodating to foreigners; you'll adjust, I think."

 _So long as it isn't like St. Eustace,_ Arthur thought. He had been out of a school for four years, and based on his past experience, he really had no reason to want to go back to one, especially in a foreign country, but he didn't have a choice.

Fujimoto began, "Our contact's on his way-"

"Hello, hello!" a loud voice boomed.

Arthur turned to see a very tall man in one of the Order's uniforms, but instead of the normal dark color, it was white. The man had long, unkempt hair, beady eyes, and his clothing was just as messy as his grooming. His uniform was decorated with all sorts of colorful baubles and trinkets, and he wore what looked like a clown's top hat with a polka dot ribbon. He had no sense of style. It looked like Hello Kitty had thrown up on him.

"…and there he is." Fujimoto sighed. "Try not to sneak up on me for once."

"Ah, Shiro, good to see you, good to see you! The branch is fine, indeed fine! And this must be-" He turned, looking directly at Arthur. The boy felt suddenly cold. "This must be the young Angel you speak of! Greetings, young Angel!" He took Arthur's hand without any input from the boy, and forcibly shook it like he was wringing out a towel.

"Arthur, this is Johann Faust the Fifth, headmaster of the True Cross Academy in Tokyo. I've already told him a bit about you," Fujimoto stated.

"Yes, and I am overjoyed! Indeed, overjoyed that I have such an incredible pupil! In addition, you may call me Mephisto. Mr. Faust is too formal a name for this occasion, yes, indeed!"

"Mephisto?" Arthur turned his head quizzically. "Isn't that a-"

The stone-cold look from the senior exorcist told the British boy he should say nothing more on the matter. "It's your middle name, isn't that right?"

"Why, yes, indeed, it is my second name!" the tall man replied. "Come, my friend, yes, my friend and young Angel, the car awaits! I would very much like you to witness the academy I preside over, and the same you will be attending, indeed!"

As they walked toward their exit, Arthur sucked in. Through the glass, he could see that a Rolls-Royce limousine was parked on the curb.

"Hey, is that ours?" he asked Fujimoto aside.

The exorcist shrugged. "Told you it was a rich place."

Sure enough, Arthur and the two members of the Order entered the automobile and took their seats in the back. Just as he had thought, it was an incredibly luxurious vehicle, with a minibar and couch seating and everything. The headmaster reached into the cooler and took out a funny-looking glass bottle.

"Ah, young Angel, do you desire one as well? A Ramune is a specialty of this country, and it is very refreshing, indeed, I must say so!" He took off the wrapping, and some kind of hammer popped out, which he used to push what looked like a marble into a bottle. He downed the drink in one gulp.

"No, I've had too much like that today," Arthur replied.

"I see Shiro is continuously stingy, am I correct?"

"It's called spending the Order's money responsibly," Fujimoto harrumphed.

"Since when have you cared much, at all, for the responsibilities of the Order, my good man Shiro?" Mephisto asked. "It surprises me a fair deal, indeed, it does."

Shiro Fujimoto hissed, took out a cigarette, and lit it. The sour smell of smoke hit Arthur's nose and he gagged. _Jeez, at least wait until we're outside to do that, won't you?_

Presently the limousine had made its way onto a highway, where cars zoomed at high speeds all around them. A sign indicated a road branching off the main way, and the limo turned at the exit. It was another few minutes before the highway evened straight, and as they came out of a tunnel, Arthur's eyes immediately widened.

The residential area they were driving by was flat, green, and not dense at all. But in the middle, a hill, or at least what he thought was a hill, rose above the ground sharply. It had so many buildings on its slopes it was impossible to tell if it was natural or manmade. At the top stood a majestic marble structure, its domes shining in gold, and taking up the whole of the summit and even extending lower. The structure almost looked unreal, like it couldn't physically exist.

"And now you've seen it," Fujimoto announced, taking the tobacco out of his mouth for a brief second.

"Why, most impressive!" Mephisto clapped. "Even though it belongs to me, indeed, it is my domain, I am still twinged with awe every time it passes into my sight!"

"How do you even fit that up there?" Arthur asked.

"A miracle of engineering, far beyond its era!" the headmaster crowed.

"Built in 1867," Fujimoto commented. "Don't ask me how they did it. I have no idea."

The car exited the highway and began to speed along one of the surface streets. It was strangely quiet for midday. Gradually the Rolls began to climb the winding, corkscrew road up the mountain. This part, with lively sidewalks and large buildings, was much more active, and the car began to hit traffic. Fortunately, it was not much, and in short time they reached the top of the hill, where the buildings of the Academy stood to meet the sky in all their glory. They were even more impressive from close than they were from afar. A couple guards in the Order's uniform stood at a gate, which immediately opened; they saluted as the car went by. Shortly they pulled into a parking lot, which was next to the tallest, most imposing building of them all.

As they got out of the car, Arthur immediately stretched out, yawning up into the sunlight. Hopefully his new room was right around the corner.

"Ah, young Angel, you must be guided through my wonderful school, indeed! It is such an honor to have you here, in this place!" Mephisto extended his arms, such as a parent bragging on his child.

"I can find my way around," he replied.

"Well, if you would not prefer the tour," Mephisto replied, rather hurt, "you should at least experience our fine cuisine, indeed! It is a feast for the senses, indeed it is!"

Arthur's stomach growled. The idea certainly sounded good to him.

As they entered the building, Arthur's breath was sucked from his mouth, the structure was so grand. A marble staircase extended many stories to the heavens, and the dome opened up above, lined with glinting colors. On the many balconies, students in uniform went back and forth, hurrying to classes, so he thought.

"Ah, it is lunchtime," Mephisto mused. "I suppose it would be a good thing for you to see our fine eatery at work, yes, it would be!"

After a short walk, the three came into a large, open room. Tables were everywhere, and lots of Japanese high schoolers sat eating lunch there. Upon seeing the headmaster enter, many of them stopped and looked up, and Arthur could hear murmurs running through the crowd. Great. First day and he was already attracting attention he didn't want.

They moved into the line, and the students waiting moved aside, seemingly out of awe. The counters for food were huge, and many chefs were working behind them.

"It is _haute cuisine,_ indeed!" Mephisto crowed. "Are you, perhaps in the mood to try something from here, young Angel? Or would you prefer a dish from your homeland? Everything can be made to order, yes, indeed it can!"

"I don't really care," Arthur harrumphed, pulling his hair over his eyes and shrinking down into his hoodie to try to be less conspicuous.

"Oh, a chef's choice, is that so? In that case, three of the _nabeyaki udon_ , indeed, good chef!"

One of the chefs behind the counter yelled something back in Japanese.

"Don't go ordering for me, you rich idiot!" Fujimoto barked.

"But I say, you prefer it as well, do you not?"

"Yeah, kinda, I guess…"

"Then indeed! Three _nabeyaki udon_!"

Mephisto wasn't doing a great job drawing attention away from Arthur. The louder the headmaster was, the more eyes he could feel staring at him. He quickly looked around. There were many jet-black heads, but he noticed some brown ones, some lighter colors in the back…were there other foreigners here? Maybe he could find someone who spoke English too. It would be nice to have a friend in such a strange place.

Turning back to the counter, the dishes were served up. They were three of the same noodle soup in clay bowls, with what looked like fried shrimp and mushrooms bobbing in the broth. His stomach growled. He wasn't the biggest lover of Asian food, but it sure did look appetizing.

At the register, the headmaster took out a wad of bills, made a show of counting through them, and handed a few to the man working it. They made their way to an empty table, with less eyes on them now that most of the students were focusing back on their own food.

As they sat down, he reached for the fork, and instead pulled up a set of wooden sticks. He had seen them before…uh…what were they called again?

"If you are unsure, young Angel, we have the fork as well!" Mephisto exclaimed, pressing a button on the table. Almost immediately, a chef in uniform came running over, laid a metal fork on the table, and went right back to his station.

Fujimoto cracked the wooden utensil into two parts. "Not being able to use chopsticks for this should be a crime."

 _Well, sorry I'm not from here like you are._

Arthur took a hesitant taste; it was hot, and flavors he was not used to, but it was delicious. He could get used to eating this with no problem.

"By the way," he asked hesitantly, "how much is this anyways?"

"Well," Mephisto stopped to think for a second. "In your customary money, yes, I believe it would be sixty pounds, indeed it would be."

Arthur's twinge of joy immediately dissipated. "S-s-s-sixty pounds a day? Are you guys nuts?"

"Well, young Angel, you are receiving a stipend, as you are a scholarship student, indeed."

 _Oh, good_. At least he could afford it.

"By the way, the stipend's a hundred quid a week. For everything," Fujimoto commented.

Arthur's brow immediately furrowed at Mephisto's know-nothing smile. "That's evil."

"Get used to it. It's customary for exorcist trainees here."

The rest of lunch went quickly, and soon enough, with another press of the button, the staff had taken their dishes away. "Young Angel, your dormitory is next. Follow me," Mephisto announced.

They passed through a series of corridors, with more students stopping to gawk, then made their way into a large, many-storied square building just off the campus. Although it looked to be in need of a bit of repair, it wasn't too bad.

"Junior Second Class dormitories are in here, indeed!" Mephisto announced. They entered the building and turned down a hall, which was carpeted in red velvet. As they went by, Arthur noticed some students in the doorways of their rooms, staring daggers at them.

"Um, why are they looking at me like that?" he asked no one in particular.

"The Exwires always hate the Junior Second Classes," Fujimoto replied. "They think you guys get special treatment or something."

Presently they reached a door, in which Mephisto placed a key and turned it, before handing it to the boy. "This is your key, young Angel! It opens your personal room, and it can also get you right to the exorcist cram school, indeed! Just use it on any door!"

The room that Arthur saw was pretty large for a dormitory. In the back, a small kitchen suite with a table sat, and a door leading to a bathroom and closet went to the right. The center was home to a couple couches and a television. Arthur turned to the left, and came across a large room with two soft beds…and then he noticed the figure curled under the sheets of one of them, fast asleep. Arthur jumped back in surprise.

"No one told me there was going to be anyone already in here!" he exclaimed, indignantly.

Fujimoto scowled and rammed his foot up against the bedpost, then yelled, "Get up!" The figure in the bed jolted upwards. Now that he was out from under the covers, Arthur could see that the person in the bed was another European, or at least it seemed like, with dark hair that covered his eyes. He looked a bit lost.

"Wha-huh?" the boy asked, trying to come to his senses, before he spotted Fujimoto. "Oh, it's you."

"Godsakes, Light, we told you that you were gonna get your new roommate today, and what do you do? Sleep through it!" Fujimoto growled.

"Sorry, Pops," the kid yawned. He had sort of a drawl, Arthur noticed.

"Pops?" Fujimoto growled. "Get some respect, kiddo."

The other boy simply yawned again.

Fujimoto turned to Arthur. "Go on, at least introduce yourself."

Shooting a look back, Arthur began hesitantly. "Um, my name's Arthur Angel, and I'm 15, from Glastonbury, and this is my first day so please be nice…"

The other kid hung his mouth open. "Glastonbury? Cool, I've never met someone from Connecticut…"

Arthur's mood immediately soured. _Of all the people they could have roomed me with, and they put me with an American?!_

"Anyways," the kid stood up. "I'm Lewin Light, but most people call me Lightning, so I guess you can too if you want. I'm 19, from El Paso. Hope we get along!" He grinned.

"I'm not from Connecticut…I'm from England, you idiot," Arthur snapped.

"You are? Oh, now I gotcha…you do have that accent…"

"Is there anything wrong with that?"

"Huh? No, not really…"

His new roommate seemed both slow to pick up on things and not too smart in the first place. Arthur wasn't too happy about the choice, if he was allowed his own opinion.

"Oldest student in my advanced course, and the least responsible," Fujimoto harrumphed.

Suddenly, the watch on Mephisto's wrist exploded with a poof of colored smoke, and a cuckoo emerged from it, calling out the time or whatever it was supposed to be.

"Alas, my time is short!" the headmaster cried. "I must run, indeed, for there is a pressing matter! Continue to familiarize young Angel with his new dwelling, will you, perhaps, Shiro? A good day to you, young Angel! And indeed, the same to you, young Light!" He again shook both the boys' hands vigorously before moving out the door so fast it almost seemed like he teleported.

They stood for a second before Fujimoto threw open the closet. Two blue uniforms hung on the rack, as well as several sets of school uniforms in all their parts.

"Your stuff is in here. Your schedule is on the bed…it starts Monday," Fujimoto stated. Then, he held out a shiny brass key to the boy. "Exorcist cram school starts after school, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. This gets you to your classroom from any door and back again. If you lose, you have to go the long way back to your dorm, so don't forget it."

Arthur picked up the schedule and immediately groaned. Beneath the label of "International Class" was a large, intricate schedule of many different things. _Nine classes a day? Are you kidding me?_

"Oh, we've got Japanese together," the voice of the American said from over his shoulder. Lewin was peering onto the paper in that position, nearly touching Arthur. Arthur hissed softly. _Get out of my space, jackass._

"Really?" he asked, not really trying to hide his lack of concern.

"Yeah, the international class is tiny, so all the years are mixed together in there." the older boy said. "Anyways, Pops disturbed my nap, so I'm gonna go back to sleep. See you in a few." He immediately flopped down and was out within the minute.

Arthur sighed. He was going to have to get used to this one way or another, even if he didn't like it.

* * *

The door opened, and Shiro Fujimoto stepped out of the room. The hallway of the dorm was emptier than usual; most of the students had gone back to class by this point, and all the Junior Second Classes that weren't at school would be out in field training. The lavish building was quite a bit eerie when it was uninhabited.

"So, is that your new one?" a voice came from beside him. He turned to see the disheveled figure of Mephisto Pheles, heel leaning against the wall, wearing a slight smirk. "Interesting kid."

"Yes, that's my new one, as you put it."

"How many steps into your master plan is this? The great vanquisher, or just a supporting player?"

"What master plan?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Shiro. That kid's just another tool to you, and you know it."

"Sometimes that's necessary."

"Is it worth it, honestly? The Vatican hates you. If your other 'puzzle pieces' found out, they'd hate you too. Does that kid know a single thing of what you're planning? No, of course not. Just like the other two, three, four…they have no idea."

"Do you disapprove?"

Mephisto laughed. "Me? No, not at all. Some of my less savory brethren deserve to be sent back to where they belong. I find it rather interesting."

Shiro swallowed. He had to say something here. It was the right thing, wasn't it? Why was that so hard to figure out? "He hates demons, and he is the first in fourteen hundred years to bear Excalibur. He could be the chosen one, for all I know. I desperately hope he is. If the Light is not brought to Assiah within the next hundred years…I fear Hell could destroy us all."

"And what are you going to do if he's not the one? Find another orphan and turn him into a killing machine too?"

"An exorcist never turns his sword against another living being."

"I don't count as living? You wound me, you wound me."

"Demons can't die, they just go back to their realm. You know that, Mephisto."

"Yes, I suppose. But does he?" The headmaster stopped for a second, staring into Shiro's eyes. It was rather uncomfortable. "I'm looking forward to how your next weapon progresses, Shiro. Don't disappoint me. We have a deal, after all."

With a swish and a turn of his cape, Mephisto Pheles was gone from the hallway, and once again there was no one there but Upper Second Class Fujimoto and whatever things might be hiding in the corners of his vision.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Hey everyone! I'm still writing, but as my school year goes to its conclusion, I don't have a lot of free time. I'm going to be graduating in two months…honestly, it feels like I just entered high school, but now I'm soon to be a college freshman. I may not update for a while…I just do this for fun and I have a lot of stuff going on in my life.

Thanks for reading and see you soon!

-mrcmc888


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